


Love, Burning Bright

by CommonEvilMastermind



Series: I Come To You With Nothing [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Extended Scenes, F/M, First Time, Foreplay, Sex, Wedding Night, sex and feelings, sex and feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonEvilMastermind/pseuds/CommonEvilMastermind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extended wedding night scene of "I Come To You With Nothing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Currently contains the smut of Solas and Lavellan's wedding night, as requested by SassySeekerBr. Requests are always welcome! Thank you for reading!

 “Solas,” she whispers, lips brushing his ear. “Tonight is our wedding night.” Her hands slide up his sides, so slow, too slowly.

“I-” She nips his earlobe, just slightly. “Yes,” he says. Their wedding night. He picks her up bodily, swings her on to the beautiful new bed. There is plenty of room, now, for two.

She laughs in delight and this is a wondrous thing, that her laughter could ring out so bright and true and clear. She clambers to her feet, standing on the bed, and he kisses the laughter that tumbles from her lips. She takes advantage of her newfound height, holding his head in her hands and kissing him exactly how she means to – deep and rolling, the heat building until she is pressed against him from collarbone to calf.

There is a carefully controlled spell that would sear away their clothing in an instant. There are but a few layers between them, mere cotton and wool and he would be holding her, feeling her skin, her heat against the entire length of his body. This sounds appealing. But to cast the spell he would need to concentrate, and for that they would have to stop kissing and right now he is mouthing a line down the curve of her neck as she makes short, soft noises and he cannot be bothered to cast a spell at this particular moment in time.

He will have to do it the old fashioned way.

His hands make their way down the strong curves of her body, ghosting over her chest, teasing across her hips until he comes to her calves, where his hands meet warm skin instead of cool fabric. She is so strong. She is so soft. His breath catches in his throat as his hands slide up to her knee, lifting her skirt along with them and he cannot help the small noise he makes into her collarbone because she is real, she is here, she is _his_ , and there are too many feelings to name-

His hands run up her thighs and she jumps. She jolts back, electrified, her body tense, a sound choked in her throat. He loses a heartbeat in panic. “I-“

“No, don’t!” she yelps.

“What-“

“No, sorry, it’s fine, I just-” She bites her lip, blushing furiously, and says something too small to hear.

“ _Vhenan-_ “ This is desperate – what has he done?

“I said it _tickles._ ”

He lets the word settle into the quiet, savors it in cool relief. She fidgets under his hands.

“Are you… ticklish?” he asks, low and dangerously.

“What, I- _No…_ ” she sputters but it is too late. He pounces and she shouts, squealing, collapsing to the bed, rendered helpless by the force of his attack.

And she _laughs._

She laughs and she laughs, curled around him, his strong, bright, beautiful Inquisitor completely undone by a mere crook of his fingers and it’s a wondrous, wondrous thing. She’s a puddle of a person, unable to form a defense or counterattack because she is _ticklish_ and laughing so hard she can’t catch her breath.

It is incredible.

She finally grabs his hands, entwines her fingers with his own so he can do no more damage. He could easily pull away, but he is kneeling atop her, straddling her hips, and when she pulls their hands over her head it is so easy to lean down, to kiss the last of the laughter from her lips. She makes a pleased sound and rolls underneath him and it-

 _Oh_.

It is his only consolation that when she breaks the kiss, her eyes are wide, pupils blown with want. He is not the only one so close to being undone, just from her lips and the rolling of her body underneath him.

She breaks away and touches the heavy embroidery on his wedding tunic and says with a question, “off?” He agrees wholeheartedly, bending his head and sliding the whole thing off.

It is too beautiful, too precious, to be treated callously. So while his body shouts at him to just toss the thing to the floor, he reluctantly stands, folds it carefully, places it like a treasure on their bare wooden table, next to the official contract of their marriage.

Behind him, the bed rustles as she stands. Her hands on his back are warm and soothing, tracing his scars, the lines of his skin. He hopes she likes what she finds. He is not made like modern elven men – he is too tall, now, too broad, too muscular. Would she rather he was- ? What if-

She swears, soft and reverent, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade, wrapping her arms around his chest. “You are incredible,” she murmurs into his skin. He certainly does not relax, just a bit. But he does turn around, gather her into his arms, hold her as she continues her investigation.

Her hands are slow and firm as she traces lines of fire on his torso – the curve of his shoulders, the plane of his stomach, the slope of his ribs and abdomen. She traces his chest, and her thumbs drag slow circles over his nipples, a movement that he feels straight down his spine and somehow weakens his knees. It drags a sound out of him, startled and pleased, and she turns her face to kiss him with a smile playing on her lips.

It is strange and perfect and incomplete. She skates a finger along the waistband of his leggings. This has another interesting effect on his knees.

“May I?” she murmurs into his lips, and her fingers trace a line just under his waistband.

“Yes,” he says, but the word is not as collected as he would wish. “May I?” And he slips a finger under the collar of her dress, traces a line there.

He is gratified by the tremble in her voice when she says, “ _Yes, yes, yes._ ” He feels undone, like a new-fledged fool, but perhaps he is not alone in this. Perhaps this is their wedding night. Perhaps she wants him, too.

He does not remember what it is, to be wanted for himself, in his own name and his own skin. He is stripped of more than clothing by her strong, skilled hands. But his wild, wandering thoughts are pulled to sharp attention when she pulls her wedding dress over her head. Underneath, she wears nothing but a smile.

He lets out a shuddering breath. Somewhere deep in the center of himself, there is a crack. A buckle, a breaking, a feathering of fine lines spiraling out of his soul. She stands there, bare, and the lantern-light is golden on her skin. She stands there, bare but for his wedding ring, and draws him close. She is light and life and warmth and the feeling of her, pressed against him, is everything he ever wanted, everything he forsook-

He took the name of the wolf and cast himself into the darkness. The _din’anshiral_ is bitter and cold. He pushed all things aside – denied and denied and denied, walled away the parts of his soul that needed what all things need, life and warmth and love. He cast himself into a tool to fight the darkness and he walled himself away.

Now she holds him. Pressed against him, warm, alive, and he can feel her heart beating in her breast. Holding her, they are two-as-one and he is buckling, breaking under the weight of his own self and he buries his face in her hair.

He breathes. Fights. Seeks. Composure. Control. Calm. He is a storm, breaking. He will drown.

She is. Hands in the small of his back. She holds. Anchors. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Soft murmuring in his ear.

She holds.

Anchor.

“I’ve got you.”

“ _Let go_.”

He breaks.

He breaks, is broken, the walls tremble and crumble and he would lose himself but she is here, he loses himself in her and is safe, is saved. He lets go and her mouth is hot, warm with want underneath him and he is lost in her, but she brings them down safe, safe on their wedding bed and the sheets under his skin. He is lost in the light and the bright and the feeling, he has never, there is too much and he is wild and broken and out of control-

And she holds him, is holding him, he is suddenly and violently in his own skin because she is astride him, rocking down, and she is so warm, over him, and he, he is, she reaches between them and adjusts and, no, yes, yes, yes, she is so hot around him, she is so _tight_ and-

And she makes a sound.

It is the auditory equivalent of freezing water, flooding down his spine. He is watching her face, sees the emotion flicker there and that, that is not pleasure that is _pain_. She makes a small, hurt sound as she bares down on him, so tight, too tight, and the pain on her face shoots like ice in his belly.

“No.” He pulls back, pulls away, lifts her off of him and for a person who has changed the entire world she is far too easy to lift. She squawks in protest as he deposits her at the end of the bed.

“No,” he says again, sternly, as the embarrassment and indignation rise on her cheeks. “Not like that.”

“I-“ she sputters, she is angry. “I, what, why-“

“I will not hurt you.” She blinks. There is iron in his voice. “I will not hurt you.”

She scowls, but there is a blush staining her cheeks. “I- it- I was fine.”

He says nothing, raises an eyebrow.

She makes a face, but her anger falls into something softer. “So, what should we do?”

“May I taste you?” he asks and, oh, he wants to. Wants to bury himself at the junction of her thighs, in her, in her taste and smell and learn how she trembles around him. He wants to lick and flick and suck until she is howling for her release, until she is sopping with desire, loose and wet and-

“Later,” she says, and her voice cracks so he knows she is thinking of it, too. But, “Later,” she says. “It’s, I want-” She licks her lips, flushed. “Come here?”

He does, lying alongside her, they are stretched out along the bed and she is close enough to kiss so he does, soft and sweet, his hand on the curve of her hip.

“Like this,” she says and brings his hand up, wraps her lips around his first two fingers and _sucks_ and he makes a sound to which he will never admit. Then she guides those fingers down, down to the nest of coarse curls between her legs and says, “here.”

“Here?” he says softly, running his fingertips over the top of her mound.

She makes a frustrated noise and cants her hips and says, “lower.”

“Here?” he says, and he traces soft lines on the inside of her thigh.

She squirms. “Higher.”

“Here?” he says, right above her folds and she hisses, “ _Solas-”_ and he dips his fingers, lightly stroking her clit and she arches into his touch with a muffled cry.

He takes his time, sure now, mapping his old skills onto her new body, kissing her sweetly as she swears and sighs and cries out against his lips. He slips a single finger into her warm, wet heat, moving in slow, widening circles. It seems to delight her as much as it frustrates her. She wants and wants, hissing _“more, more, please, more, Solas-!_ ”

“ _Wait_ ,” he tells her softly, amused, pleased. “I do not want to hurt you.”

“ _You know who will be hurt if you don’t-”_ he slips a second finger beside the first and she jerks.

“ _Solas, Solas! Fuck you, oh, please, please-”_

“That is the plan, yes,” he agrees, circling her clit with his thumb. He thinks he could get her to come like this, shuddering her completion around his fingers, crashing into orgasm in his arms, but she loses patience with his pace, reaches between them and wraps her hand around him and strokes him in time with his movements.

He is, he realizes, so hard it hurts, and the slick strength of her fingers are both perfect and not enough, not nearly enough. He wants with such intensity that it startles him, frays his control, and he does not protest when she tugs at his fingers out of the way, when she brings herself in close, when she guides him to where she is wet and loose and ready and-

He brushes her entrance. She reaches up, hand around his neck, and the look on her face-

He will never forget the look on her face as he presses inside her, that first time.

They do not move, cannot. The moment is as full as a single instant can be. They are. Two in one. He is. No beginning or end. Marriage of mind, of soul, of body. He holds. It is all he can do.

She is. Trembling faintly. Sheen of sweat on her skin. Meets his eyes, takes a breath. Rolls her hips, just a little.

He makes a choked sound and bites his cheek, hard, or he will be undone by that simple act, by the way she moves around him. And this, he must, he will not last-

It would be laughable if it wasn’t so true, so urgent, the fire burning so hot under his own skin. He feels his release building and denies it, denies it. He has lived and breathed and fought and pushed his body past the limit of all endurance and he will not come, he will not, no, not yet-

He rolls them without breaking contact until he is on top, until he finds his control in the cradle of her thighs and he can focus, focus. She is spread out before him, shuddering in the sheets, but she still meets his gaze in wonder. He slows, then, deliberate and deep, taking the time to roll his fingers over her swollen clit. She shouts, tightens around him, and he will not come, not yet-

He feels himself start to fall, start to tip over the edge. Stopping is impossible and yet he does, stops the thrust of his hips and bends forward to take a nipple in his mouth and-

And the world flips over and she is on top of him, she has him, and she smiles wickedly and-

And she takes him, rides him, a crashing pace, deep rolling snaps of her hips. He shouts, scrabbling for purchase in the sheets, on her thighs, and says _“v- I cannot, I- vhenan!”_

She is wild golden fire rising over him. “Come for me, love.”

“I-”

She leans down, whispers it into his lips. “Come.”

And everything goes slow.

Time stops.

And

in the whole universe,

there is only

_Her._

It hits with such force that he whites out, swept away in the raging current of his orgasm. Coherent thought is ripped away with speech, control, and will. If he shouts he does not know, cannot tell, knows nothing but the flood of sensation, of feeling, of pleasure overwhelming and without end. He fears he will be lost in it, will be nothing, now, but this, but she is here, she has him, she is bringing him through. She is his anchor, and she is calling him home.

He finds his own body again, settles in his limbs, and she has wrapped her arms around him, whispering softly, grounding him against the aftershocks. He is soft and still inside her, slipping out with his seed, but he does not want to, does not ever want to leave the sweet shelter of her body.

She hums against him, pleased. “You’re wonderful,” she whispers. “You are incredible, you-”

He smothers her praises in a kiss and, there, her own desire is just simmering under her skin. He tries to shift, pull away, and her legs lock around him. “Stay,” she says. “Stay, here, stay inside me, don’t-”

This is exasperating, his own softness, his lack of control. “I-”

“Please.” She is begging, soft and sweetly. It is his new weakness, when she looks at him like this. “Please, I- I’m so _close-”_

He huffs, softly, and does not move away, slips a hand between their bodies, presses her close as he finds her clit once again with his thumb. She gasps, keens, short sobs of want as she tightens around him and if he only knew a spell that would make him hard again-

Well.

He knows of no such spell. But he does know…

Hmm.

It would probably be inadvisable.

He closes his eyes, presses his forehead to her own, and concentrates. The Fade has never seemed so close, the Veil so whisper-thin. He draws the power in him, through him – if a spell is a song, this is a hum, a hum he focuses in his hand, draws down into his thumb-

She wails her surprise into his shoulder. Her body is tight as a bowstring, shaking and arching and _oh._

She is so beautiful when she comes.

After, in the faint lantern light, they talk softly of small things. He loves her smile on the pillowcase, the feeling of her body against his own, wrapped in the cool sheets. He loves the way she lies on his shoulder, in the curve of his arm, and tangles her fingers with his own. He loves the easy way she falls into sleep, the smallest smile hanging on her lips. He loves, he loves, he loves – he is full of it, overflowing, a miracle.

He did not think he could ever love, not like this. When their lamp gutters out, it does not matter in the slightest.

It will never be dark again. He is love, burning bright.


End file.
